


You Seek To Share My Troubles

by loveofmylonglife



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 14:39:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8289388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveofmylonglife/pseuds/loveofmylonglife
Summary: Set during 2x06. Elizabeth manages to escape her isolation in Trenwith for a few moments, and comes upon a strained and burdened Ross.





	

“Go on, remember to listen to your tutors.”

Geoffrey Charles nodded and walked away into the study where his tutors were waiting for him. Elizabeth watched him anxiously, biting her lip. He turned to close the door, risking a smile at his mother. She never smiled back usually, but this time the corners of her mouth lifted a little. She gave him an encouraging wave as he disappeared into the room and shut the door behind him.

Soon enough, she was called for from the living room to attend upon her dear mother who of course believed the cure for Elizabeth’s loneliness was the constant presence of herself at Trenwith. Elizabeth steadied herself and adjusted her dress, looking down at the black, embroidered fabric of her mourning gown. The last cash in hand she had, she had spent on this new dress. Normally, she didn’t approve of such frivolities but a mourning dress was only proper. She fixed the delicate scalloped neckline and adjusted the thick lock of hair that toyed with her décolletage before walking in and sitting opposite her mother.

“Elizabeth,” she smiled, sitting up slightly, “do take a shawl, you’ll catch your death. Look at you, pale a ghost.”

She motioned for a maidservant to bring a shawl for her daughter as she surveyed her. Elizabeth sat at attention, her back straight and her hands folded on her lap as she stared into the blazing fire. It did little to warm the room and seemed fake to her, the way the flames danced so brightly around the wood they consumed. She focused her eyes on it, wanting to look anywhere but at her mother.

“I see Geoffrey Charles’ tutors have come. How is he with his studies?” asked her mother inquisitively, not quite losing her airy tone.

“He is a clever boy. He works hard, they tell me.”

Her answer was short but polite and Mrs Chynoweth stared at her, motioning for the maidservant to drape the shawl around Elizabeth’s shoulders. She jerked reflexively with the touch and took the shawl from the girl, wrapping it around herself carefully. She looked down and noticed it was the same blue shawl she had gifted her mother for Christmas barely two weeks previously.

“Perfect for sitting by the fire and hiding away from society, like I said.”

Her mother’s tone was jovial but Elizabeth was not amused. She squeezed her hands tight in her lap and stared into the fire again, tucking her feet behind the front left leg of the chair, making sure to sit properly. She eyed her mother, sitting across from her in a pale pink satin gown, the chiffon neckline of which was more transparent than it ought to be at her age. Her hair was piled high on her head in the current fashion and a warm shawl was wrapped around her. Elizabeth was suddenly conscious of her own hair and the odd silence that reverberated around the room. Every room in the house seemed silent lately.

“And I am glad Geoffrey Charles is applying himself to his studies so rigorously—“

“Of course he is, what else does he have to distract him from the absence of his father?”

Elizabeth surprised herself at her sharp interjection and swallowed, looking away and back into the fire. Her mother raised her eyebrows and continued on as if Elizabeth had never spoken.

“George has been asking me whether he prefers Oxford or Cambridge for my grandson. Which do you prefer? Oxford seems rather more distinguished and it is closer, after all. What are your thoughts?”

Elizabeth’s jaw tightened as she watched one flame lick at the wood so severely that it blackened into ash right away. Geoffrey Charles still sometimes took a fancy to his old toy soldier set in his bedroom. Many a time she’d sat on the chair and watched him examine the little men one by one, taking a special interest in their weapons and uniforms. He didn’t play with them like he had when he was little, he didn’t make noises and lead them around the room against a rival army atop their horses. Instead, he would sit there on the floor and inspect each soldier carefully, showing his mother the intricate details of their red jackets with gold braid, the black stock tied tight and high on their necks. She would sit patiently as he would explain to her what he’d learned about the American war with his tutors, how he would rattle off how brave the soldiers were. There would often be a comment about his Uncle Ross in there somewhere, about how he knew he’d fought in the war and how he wished he could see him in his uniform again. She would always smile a little and nod along, unable to open her mouth and tell her son that she knew of the time where Ross had worn that uniform, how dashing he’d looked when he’d first arrived at Trenwith, kitted out in the full glory.

“Well, Elizabeth? Oxford or Cambridge?”

The piercing voice of her mother shook her rudely out of her thoughts and she startled a little, raising her head and looking at her. She didn’t know how to tell her that she could still remember the time she would swaddle her son in handmade blankets. Thinking of him attending university was a prospect so far away she couldn’t even find purchase to put constructive thought towards it. Especially if George would be paying for it. It was kind, she knew that, but she wouldn’t have her son’s education ransomed by her creditor. These tutors had cost her enough and were the only regular expenditure she could bring herself to make, and that too from selling her fine jewellery and dresses in town. The cash had been enough to pay for a year of lessons in advance. She didn’t know what she would do beyond that, what else she could afford to let go of under the watchful eyes of her mother and Aunt Agatha, but she would definitely try.

She was saved from answering by a servant who strode in and handed her a small folded up note which she opened curiously. Her mother eyed her cautiously as she read it over and furrowed her brow in concern.

“What does it say?” remarked Mrs Chynoweth, raising a hand lazily to adjust her slightly slipping coiffure, “is it another invitation from Nampara?”

Her derisive tone was enough to make Elizabeth’s head snap up angrily, the fire burning in her eyes and threatening to spill out of her mouth. She had had enough of her mother’s verbal taunts about Ross.

“No, it is not an invitation to Nampara, mother. Ross has informed me that he wishes to take Geoffrey Charles to the mine tomorrow.”

“I see, we are to expect a visit from him rather than the other way around.”

Elizabeth’s jaw tightened again and she had to remind herself to breathe as she folded the note back up, clutching it in her hand and running her fingers over it as if it would calm her. She resisted the urge to respond but felt herself shaking a little despite the fire and shawl around her. Her mother’s oppressive gaze was tangible, like knives cutting at the exposed skin of her face, her neck, her hands, making it burn uncomfortably.

“Excuse me, Mama,” she said curtly, getting up and fixing herself before turning to leave.

“Yes, make ready for his visit, as you do,” murmured her mother under her breath, making Elizabeth pause. She was glad her mother couldn’t see the way her eyes reddened as she stormed out of the room, pausing as her back hit the wall outside in the corridor.

She grasped her stomach, feeling her corset tighten her breathing uncomfortably, tipping her head back to the ceiling as she tried to regulate each breath in and out. It wasn’t an easy task and she pulled herself away from the wall, walking down the hall and hearing every step echo around the wood. It hurt her ears when she walked. She could feel the entire house shake with the force of her steps, reverberating around her so harshly her ear drums rattled.

She began to walk, though, as far as she could within the confines of the house. The corridors were a maze and she remembered chasing Geoffrey Charles through them when he was younger. So she walked, the note clutched in her hand, her feet purposeful as she made her way down one corridor, then another, inhaling and exhaling slowly to centre herself. Every corridor she took seemed to take her deeper into the house, places she felt she’d never been before even in all these years. Every hallway looked the same, dark wood and a rug here and there, barely furnished now. The sun was beginning to set outside and soon the servants would arrive and light the lamps on either side of the hallway but for now, there was light enough to make her way.

It hadn’t been that long, but her feet began to hurt as she walked and soon, she didn’t quite know where she was. Everything looked the same now and she wondered whether she was still in Trenwith or had been magically transported to another dwelling she had no knowledge of. Her breath came oddly, in sharp, short bursts as she walked and the walls began to close in. She felt tight, her corset squeezing uncomfortably around her upper body, compressing the oxygen and her eyes narrowing as she tried to see in front of her.

It was so quiet, she wanted to scream in the middle of the hallway. It was so quiet, why was it so quiet? Why had such an eerie silence fallen on Trenwith? There were servants and her mother and Geoffrey Charles and herself and Aunt Agatha, people lived here, moved and worked and talked and slept and yet still the house seemed vacant, neglected, as if no one had lived here for years. Ruins. That was the word for it, it felt like ruins. The old ruins she would sometimes take her son to see in the field by the apple orchard. Crumbling and lifeless and dusty. The house felt like ruins around her, that was all she saw when she woke, when she slept, when she ate, when she dressed. She was becoming a ruin herself, she realised with shock, nothing but a crumbling, lifeless statue for others to marvel at like she was an animal in a zoo, a freak in a circus.

“Elizabeth?”

Her gasp filled the hallway as she turned and almost stumbled on the edge of the rug. She had heard someone calling her name faintly, she was sure of it. The voice was high in pitch, warm and inquisitive. Ross’ letter fell from her hand as she clutched her skirts painfully tight, her knuckles paling against the deathly black fabric. She was sure it was Francis’ voice. She knew the way he called her name sometimes, curiously, as if she were a puzzle he hadn’t solved yet. She looked around madly, as if he’d walk out of a room casually and greet her but she knew this was mere fantasy. Why was she entertaining the notion? She opened and shut her eyes, hearing nothing but her own breath ricochet around the walls so loudly it sounded like cymbals crashing around her. Francis wasn’t here. He never would be here, never again. He would never call her name like that, or any other way for as long as she lived.

Her eyes began to burn again and this time, she couldn’t stop the tears from spilling out. She needed to get out of here. She turned as her bottom lip wobbled childishly, walking down the corridor and purposefully into her bedroom. She shut the door behind her, working quickly to unlace her mourning gown that had become so tight and uncomfortable. She pulled it off hatefully, almost ripping the chiffon from her neck as she tossed it aside. It hit the floor with a defeated slump and she breathed in and out slowly, her lips trembling as she opened up her cupboard and pulled out the heavy, velvet expanse of her riding gown. The dusky rose fabric contrasted oddly with the plain white of her sheets on her bed and her fingers shook as she attempted, clumsily, to dress herself and button the dress over her corset and undershirt. She swept her hair to the side, walking over to her vanity to pick up a red ribbon, tying it haphazardly around her tumbling locks that fell down to her waist almost before picking up her neck cloth. She took her time, staring at herself in the mirror, forcing herself to focus on the way she wound it around her neck and teased it into a pretty bow carefully, tucking the excess fabric into her neckline.

Once she deemed her appearance acceptable, she picked up her black feathered hat and gloves from the table and swept out of the room and down the stairs, the train of her gown falling elegantly behind her until she reached the bottom. She strode into the living room, standing at the threshold as her mother turned to her in surprise.

“Elizabeth? Why are you—“

“I shall be out for some time, Mama. Riding.”

Her mother looked nonplussed at Elizabeth’s sudden change of tone and paused, looking her up and down in astonishment.

“At this hour? It’s almost time for dinner, dear, the sun is—“

“I don’t have the appetite. I see no reason why not. Geoffrey Charles is with his tutors. Do not wait for me.”

With that, she turned and swept away as quickly as she had come in, but not before catching sight of Aunt Agatha, busy hobbling towards the living room to no doubt entertain herself by deliberately aggravating Mrs Chynoweth. She was glad they would occupy each other and she wouldn’t be there to witness the battle of egos.

“No doubt going to see Ross,” muttered Aunt Agatha knowingly, winking as she walked past Elizabeth.

Her jaw hardened again and Elizabeth fixed her hat on her head carefully, pulling on her gloves ceremonially.

“I shall have to disappoint you with that prophecy, Aunt.”

Before she knew it, she was riding hard and fast through the woodland near Trenwith, gripping the reins so tight she could feel them cutting into her palms through her gloves. Her gown fluttered behind her where it was draped over the horse’s flank and she parted her lips, drinking in the cool, dank air of the forest. She felt it brush harshly against her face and heard the fast, unforgiving sound of hooves beating against the crunchy leaves and brittle twigs. It was winter still and dusk did little to improve the weather but she didn’t care. She felt the cold bite at her face, making her feel something finally. Air rushed past her ears in a deafening roar as her horse carried her through the trees and clearings until she finally reached the open field, past which she knew lay the cliffs she loved so much. Determined, she pressed herself closer to her horse, riding faster and harder than she had before. Her eyes narrowed against the assault of the wind, streaming with residual tears but bright and burning. She heard the sudden change in the white noise as she opened up into the field, leaving the trees behind. Hooves met soft grass and soil now, pounding as hard as before across the open and for the first time in what felt like months, Elizabeth smiled. Gulping in the chill air and sitting up on her horse as it galloped across the field, she let it fill her lungs. She felt something now, after all those months of becoming almost unresponsive to anyone or anything.

She had needed to get out of there, get out of that horrid house where everyone and everything reminded her of her situation. Reminded her that she had no one in the world anymore apart from her son and even then, she was so keen not to allow him to feel the loss of his father. The house was empty, it wasn’t even hers anymore yet she was still forced to live in it, forced to face it every day like a prisoner in solitary confinement. She woke up alone and slept alone and spent every minute of the day in between completely and utterly alone. Her mother was a toxic presence and now she felt everyone, even the servants, seemed to be casting suspicious gazes on her when she so much as coughed. She lived for her twice weekly meetings with Ross. He would merely sit in front of her by the fire and inform her of the week’s yield and the progress the mine was making. It was of practical use and she would listen intently but what made her feel most comfortable was Ross’ precision and earnest. He was so keen to help her, to paint a realistic but positive picture of how the mine was doing to make her feel optimistic about her options. He would never comment or judge or ask or probe. He would sit and talk and smile. His smile would always be heavy, though. Brusque and courteous, engineered to make her feel better and more hopeful. No matter how much she would ask him to share his own worries with her, he never would. He’d brush aside the question and stand up to leave, kissing her hand politely before picking up his hat and striding out.

She pushed that thought to the back of her mind as she rode further, aiming for the very edge of the cliff. She didn’t want to think about Ross, or her mother or Aunt Agatha or even Verity. Dusk was beginning to shroud the horizon and a chill had swept over the cliff as the sun began to dip. Her horse slowed to trot as she reached the edge and she dismounted, catching her breath as she looked heavenwards. A sky worthy of a Turner frame graced her eyes with rich pinks and peaches dripping like paint off a canvas. The clouds looked lit from within with a golden glow, yet still oddly sinister with stark black shadows behind them. The sky was reflected in the troubled sea below, the pretty pinks and peaches becoming distorted and ugly in the crashing waves. The clouds broke up in the incoming tide and the sea looked murkier than usual. The calm blue was replaced by a dirty sapphire and it seemed to her that the waves were picking up, smashing against the rocks with a deafening roar as darkness fell quickly around her.

She didn’t quite know when she’d started crying, or when her sobs had become audible over the roaring of the waves below. She tore her hat off her head and clutched it tight, pressing a hand against her stomach again as if it could somehow keep everything else inside and stop the flow of tears. There was no one else here, she told herself. She didn’t have to look around to know she was alone, she knew no one would be out at a time like this. There was no one to watch her, she could cry and rage and lash out freely but strangely, she didn’t feel like screaming or causing a scene. She’d always been told not to make an exhibition of herself and now that she had a chance to without anyone seeing, it was like the spark had vanished.

She cried though, loudly and with abandon, something painful welling up in her throat no matter how much she sobbed. It was like her chest was full of tears she was choking out and though she cried freely, it was as if she had to fight to get them out. A gulp of bracing air into her lungs helped and she sobbed as hard and as loudly as she could. All the ache, the pain, the hurt, the feeling of being bound up so tightly she could barely move, that was all slipping away with every cry that mixed in with the waves and air around her. It felt like she’d been tied so tightly and now everything was unravelling with a force that frightened her. She didn’t know how to cope with this furious outpouring of emotion, she’d never allowed it before. No one had ever allowed her.

So she cried until her throat was raw, until her eyes were red and her face burned with the trails of salty liquid slipping over her cheeks and lips and jaw. The horizon swam in front of her sore eyes and she could barely make out anything anymore. Everything hurt, her body, her head, everything began to ache as she thought of Francis. Poor, sweet Francis who had loved her so very much, who had lost his way and tried so hard to make her happy. Poor, sweet Geoffrey Charles who had lost a father and was now so close to losing a mother too. Her heart physically hurt to think of it and she wished there was a way she could explain how imprisoned she felt in that cell of a house, how every room seemed vacant, every hallway looked the same and all she could hear was blinding silence. She couldn’t get away from it, she hardly ever left the house and if she did, she had to be chaperoned which was a new form of punishment. She wasn’t free to do as she wished, to go where she wished when she wished, it was as if someone had shackled her to those moulding ruins.

Those thoughts preoccupied her until her tears had petered out and she had stopped feeling sorry for herself. It wasn’t quite dark, there was still enough light to see and she could hear the mine’s shift ending for the evening. She knew she had better ride back. It hadn’t been long since she’d left but she knew dinner would be ending soon and she was grateful she’d missed another routine, rigid hour at the dinner table with the two matriarchs of her family. She wasn’t looking forward to the barrage of questions she’d face about her whereabouts when she got back but at least she’d have a lovely story to tell Geoffrey Charles before bed about the sea and the rocks. She wiped her face once more with her gloved hands and thought she’d blame the colour in her cheeks from the ride rather than her incessant and very unladylike crying.

She turned to grasp the reins of her horse that had been patiently munching on grass all this while far away and had hoisted herself up onto the saddle, fixing her hat on her head and preparing to ride on until she heard an unmistakeable voice.

“Elizabeth? Is that you?”

She turned her head to see Ross standing curiously some way away, holding a small, flickering oil lamp in his hand. She couldn’t see that it was him from this distance but she knew that voice anywhere and even above the crashing of the waves, she could hear her heart begin to pound uncertainly. She has only just regained control of her emotions and it had taken her long enough to do so, she didn’t need Ross to be here, Ross, the one thing that could make her unravel again in an instant. She bit her lip and dismounted, calling to him, testing out her now hoarse voice.

“Indeed! I see you’ve finished your shift at the mine! Have your fortunes changed?”

Her tone was jovial but Ross was more than confused. Why was Elizabeth of all people out at this time by herself, and here on the cliffs too? It was darkening rapidly and he was the last man from the mine to leave as usual, there had been talk of a storm on the way and for some inexplicable reason, Elizabeth was out and acting like she had come for a casual Sunday stroll. She made her way over to him calmly, holding her hat against the wind that was picking up warningly.

“How goes the mine?” she asked with her trademark enigma, smiling unreadably at Ross as he held the lamp up to cast a shadow over her face. It swung perilously from the handle in the wind, creaking ominously.

“It goes. As always. What brings you here?”

“I decided to go for a ride. Geoffrey Charles was busy with his tutors so I thought….” she gestured vaguely at her surroundings awkwardly, making Ross furrow his eyebrows.

“So you thought you would escape your cell?”

She turned her head sharply and stared at him. He raised an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth lifted as he stepped forward, the lamp casting a glow over his tanned skin. It was only when he came closer that she realised he truly had just come from the mine. His skin was covered with a light dusting of sweat, his shirt sticking to his chest and arms and billowing this way and that with the increasing wind. He held his hand on his hip imperiously as he viewed Elizabeth. She looked flustered as she always did when she saw him, yet still immaculately dressed despite the weather.

“What makes you think I want to escape anything?” asked Elizabeth airily, locking eyes with Ross.

“You’re like a bird in a cage,” murmured Ross, turning his head to look out over the beautiful but disturbed sea, “someone opened the door.”

“Cages can open from the inside out too, if only one remembers how they closed to begin with.”

Elizabeth didn’t really know where those words had come from or why she was agreeing with Ross at all, but it seemed to be a strange effect he’d always had on her. It had been years and they’d never spoken openly, mainly because they’d always been constrained by the people around them. Balls and parties and dinners and visits and lately, circumstances. They’d never been properly alone since before he’d left for the war and these days, even though they’d always be alone in that little room with the blazing fire, it always felt like Francis was there too. She closed her eyes at the thought and looked at Ross, opening her mouth to say it was best if she rode back to Trenwith, but he seemed to get there before her.

“It’s cold, Elizabeth. There’s a storm coming, you’ll catch your death,” he commented, narrowing his eyes to see her horse beating the ground just behind her. He wished he could go back to the mine and find his own coat to lend her.

“I do not feel the cold,” she said again, allowing herself a small smile.

The corner of Ross’ mouth lifted again in acknowledgement and he fought laughter.

“I think you do. At any rate, you used to.”

“At any rate, it’s warmer than Trenwith.”

Ross smiled at her again, finding a small spark of joy in the way she mimicked their earlier conversation. Elizabeth smiled too, shyly this time, looking down at the ground like a little girl. Their discussion was tainted by their previous interaction, though, and Elizabeth was surprised that Ross had been so observant of her behaviour during their meetings.

“Do you find it a disagreeable place? Trenwith?” she ventured cautiously, looking up at him from under her lashes. His arm ached from holding the lamp and he let it fall, walking with her to the edge of the cliff as he talked.

“I never found it agreeable to begin with.”

“Never? Not once? Not even when you were younger?”

Ross paused at this, letting the wind hammer at him, lifting away the heat and sweat of his labour until he reached the end of the cliff, looking out across the sea. It looked like something from a painting of a shipwreck. He could feel the storm almost making port, so to speak. The waves were picking up and crashing terrifyingly on the rocks, the beach barely visible as the tide rushed in and then out again. It was almost fully dark now.

Her question was an innocent one but even she knew it wasn’t the right one to ask Ross.

“Things were different when I was younger,” he said quietly, keeping his eyes firmly on the raging sea, “there was a time, though, once, when perhaps I did find it agreeable. It seems lost, now, like it was in a dream. Perhaps one I never dreamed myself.”

Elizabeth didn’t know how to reply but before she could even consider it, Ross sat down, setting his lamp beside him with his legs dangling over the edge. He looked up at her and she decided to join him. She didn’t know to what end or how long she would be here but suddenly it didn’t matter. The wind lashed at her face harder at this angle and she felt the harsh grit of the salty sea spray spitting at her skin, even from this distance.

“And how is my nephew? Does he ride well? I saw him practising when I visited last.”

Elizabeth smiled at this, taking her hat off her head and setting it down next to her. Ross leaned back on his hands to observe her as she spoke.

“He is very well. He works hard with his tutors and enjoys riding very much. He told me he hopes next time perhaps his Uncle Ross would go riding with him. He is a good boy, so polite and gracious to everyone who comes to offer their condolences. He is my joy, truly.”

Ross smiled too as he watched her speak about her son, seeing her smile more than he’d seen in the last few months put together.

“It looks like he’s been taking good care of his mother also. Like I said, for his sake, I shall squeeze every last drop out of that mine. I know your worry, Elizabeth.”

Her smile dropped as quickly as it had appeared when Ross leaned forward and sat up again, slouching a little and looking out. She didn’t want to discuss her financial worries with him, not anymore. It had been enough, sitting there twice a week talking about nothing but money and how scared she was that her son would live on nothing. She knew that these conversations were of practical use but that was then, when she’d been in Trenwith, the perfect setting for such dusty, logical talk. They were not there now and the wind that whipped at her curls reminded her of that.

“I know you’re scared for him but I promise you I will do my best for your son. I shan’t let anything defeat me, for his sake. And for yours.”

At this, he turned his head slightly to observe her, letting the feeling in those last three words wash over her as roughly as the sea on the rocks below. She became flustered, as she was wont to do whenever Ross looked at her or spoke to her, like she didn’t know where to look or what to say. He felt such a warm affection, a deep fondness for that particular habit she had. It made him glow inside with a deep rooted arrogance and a similarly deep rooted love, that he was the man who could make her lose all her words.

“I know it’s hard for you, in Trenwith,” he continued, looking down between his legs to pick at the damp grass, “I would slowly perish too if I was locked away in such a ruin, constantly haunted by the ghosts of the great Poldarks. With all due respect, Aunt Agatha must not be the most captivating company.”

“My mother is here, of late,” remarked Elizabeth, attempting to sound even a little excited, “she keeps me company.”

“Indeed, the most riveting of individuals,” snorted Ross derisively, causing even Elizabeth to make a sound halfway between a giggle and a cough. Ross turned to her in surprise and grinned at her reaction, watching her fight laughter.

“My mother is most engaging,” she said, attempting to feign some sense of propriety as she wiped her eyes cautiously, regaining her senses after her fit of giggles, “she attempts to induct me back into society. At least, that is her plan.”

Ross snorted again and plucked more grass, tossing it aside where it was picked up by the wind. He couldn’t wait to make another visit to Trenwith to see Mrs Chynoweth. It had been long since he’d sparred with her and it would offer a nice, if spiteful, distraction from the troubles in his life currently. Antagonising old ladies wasn’t a favourite pastime of his, but this old lady had caused him his fair share of grief over the years and continued to do so. He hated thinking of Elizabeth locked up in a room with her controlling, passive aggressive mother, guilt tripping her into attending balls and parties and receiving visitors when all Elizabeth desired was a quiet life with her son. He was thankful that the seasonal festive events were over, even thinking about Elizabeth’s face at a ball alongside her mother was painful. That was where he had seen her first after all, he wondered, at a ball all those years ago, standing uncertainly alongside a much younger Mrs Chynoweth. Her mother had been gazing at all the young, eligible men in the room, pointing them out politely to her daughter and encouraging her to look over. Elizabeth, in contrast, had clasped her hands together and was squeezing them with more force than was needed, a pretty but vacant smile plastered on her face as she looked around the room, never really locking eyes with anyone and trying not to wince when her mother elbowed her in the ribs.

“I intend on declining any invitations to balls,” her voice cut into his thoughts, “I wish to spend more of my time with Geoffrey Charles.”

“And Aunt Agatha and your mother, by association. What thrilling conversation must occur between all of you.”

She knew he was teasing but his tone was darker now. He was picking at the grass more aggressively, as if he were digging for ironstone even here. He seemed angry for her, if she was reading him right.

“There is no conversation,” she admitted, looking out across the sea again, “there is just me, Ross. Me and that ghastly house. The same every day. I wake, I dress, I take breakfast and see Geoffrey Charles to his tasks. I take luncheon and perhaps spend some time thinking about how possibly I can revive the future I see dying before me. The hours take me then to dinner, where I sit and eat with Aunt and Mother. I mind it not, for Geoffrey Charles sits with me and tells me all his tutors have told him. Then it is up to bed for him and to hell for me, where I must sit and shiver in that room and listen to constant taunts about my dress and hair, perhaps even my gait and my speech, my capability as a mother. My mother becomes the judge of whom I may or may not see, may or may not speak to or engage with. And then I realise I am on trial, in a silent court where a sentence is passed regularly. And every day, this trial resumes and to begin with, I would speak, testify in my defence but now, when the suspect is aware of the charge and the sentencing, he loses the will to speak. And so this façade continues, afresh every day, like Prometheus chained to a boulder with nowhere to—“

Her voice, that had become more and more erratic as she spoke, began to break. She stopped as a sob escaped her lips and angrily tore her gloves off, tossing them aside as she wiped her eyes furiously on her sleeve. She steadied herself on the grass and that was when she felt Ross’ hand, strangely warm, envelop her own. He picked her hand up from the grass and intertwined her fingers with his slowly, lazily almost, squeezing her hand softly. Setting their intertwined hands on his thigh, he remained silent, the pain brewing inside him too much, too consuming to permit him to speak. She shivered less now, the warmth of his hand travelling up her arm and washing over her body soothingly until she calmed, swallowing the salty air.

“And you, Ross?” she asked after a while, looking down at where their hands were joined, “you seek to share my troubles yet never tell me your own.”

The repetition of that phrase made his face set in a dismissive frown as he let go of her hand, leaning back on his own arms as he felt the rain begin to dampen his skin. Strangely, neither of them seemed to care.

“They are not for you to concern yourself with, Elizabeth, and of no consequence. You hardly need my troubles adding to your—“

“Yet you take mine and add them to yours. It works both ways. You may think I know little of mining, of the practicalities and logistics of such an industry yet I assure you I am not as untutored as I look.”

“I do not doubt it,” Ross said with a smile. Her desire to learn and broaden her horizons had been something that had drawn him to her from an early age. The way she would spend hours reading and questioning elders, as much as the realms of propriety allowed and then some, the way she would constantly ask Ross questions about the state of the world, the passionate argument they had had over his desire to go to war. She looked at him questioningly and hoped that he would open up to her after what she’d shared with him. Her tears, her childish blustering and anger were something that Ross hadn’t seen since he was younger and she had expected he would be surprised at the sudden outpouring of emotion, but he had seemed to take it in his stride. It was the Elizabeth he’d known all along, after all. It didn’t shock him in the least, in fact it made him warm to her. That little glimpse of the fiery, intolerant Elizabeth he’d known before had been familiar, comfortable. He knew a touch of his hand would calm her like it had done many times before. He knew what to do with her.

Perhaps that was exactly why he was opening his mouth now, telling her everything he’d kept pent up inside him over the last few months. The nice and not so nice things in the back of his head came tumbling out in a mess of words, punctuated by frustrated growls and even a kicking of his legs sharply against the cliffside when he became particularly emotional. It was childish, he was aware of it. Her whining about feeling lonely, his whining about feeling put upon and misunderstood. But the cause of these feelings were very adult concerns; family bereavement, financial ruin, the prosperity of his business, the love of a mother for her son. There was no shame in it, she thought to herself, in kicking her legs like a spoilt child, in letting Ross stamp the floor with his boots and flail his fists. Their thoughts drifted and somehow intertwined in the chaotic air above them as she listened to Ross unburden himself. It was okay to complain, to feel weighed down by responsibility, to feel cornered by circumstances, to feel helpless.

“And I don’t know what to do,” he whispered in frustration as he looked out across the sea again, now barely visible though the arrows of rain in his field of vision. He barely noticed that his shirt had soaked through and was now sticking to his skin completely. “I don’t know what to do, Elizabeth. How do I provide for Demelza and Jeremy? How do I find new ironstone when Francis went so deep and found nothing but fool’s copper? When my last hope for finding anything was dashed so suddenly? I fear it, Elizabeth, I fear we shall never find anything of use in this mine and I cannot bear it. I opened Wheal Grace again because I thought it would be of use, I convinced all our shareholders that these experiments, these new inventions would bring us profit yet all I’ve done is throw money at them and watch it sink into a bottomless pit. I feel like I’ve failed them, I’ve failed Demelza, I’ve failed my own father and I’ve failed myself.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply but was cut off quickly by an impassioned Ross, who sat up fully now, curling one leg up to rest his arm on it as he turned to her.

“And George, how pleased he is with himself, holding this promissory note above my head like some dreaded Sword of Damocles!” he raged, turning away fiercely to stare out against the rain, his jaw tightening as she watched, “he has his repayment and I admit, that is a load off my shoulders and I shall be eternally grateful to this anonymous donor yet still! Still I know he plots something to bring me down! He shall not rest until he does so, Elizabeth, and I know I shall soon be faced with another plan from him! All these…worries plague me and I find solace in working the mine yet is it not abominable that a man should feel happier at labour than at rest in his own home?”

“I think it depends greatly on what he finds there.”

Ross paused and looked at her. Her measured response was delivered in a quiet, thoughtful tone, something he wasn’t used to these days. She looked back at him questioningly again, inferring that he should continue speaking. Whereas by now he would probably feel like he had rambled enough, somehow he couldn’t stop himself. She seemed oddly still in this whirlwind of rain and air and sea even though she was soaked now too, her curls transformed into waves as her raven locks became weighed down with water. Her rose pink velvet gown looked almost black as it soaked up the rain and it dripped delicately off her nose, her lashes and her lips. She was still and solid in the chaos of everything he felt and he suddenly wanted to glue himself to the spot, to hold onto this for dear life, like a climber finding purchase on a rock face.

“Demelza and I….” he began, faltering as he tried to find the right words for it without sounding ungrateful, “Demelza and I do not agree on a lot of things. We fight more and talk less. I try the best I can to explain to her why I do the things I do, for the good of us, the family, Jeremy, yet…she disagrees and there are nothing but unkind words. So quickly any conversation between us will turn to contention and—“

“She fears for you, Ross. She fears for your arrest, that you’ll be taken away from her again. How is she to raise Jeremy by herself? I know how it is to care for a child alone and to mourn the loss of a husband. She simply wishes that you would take more care of yourself, for her sake. I know you take risks to improve the situation at Nampara—“

“Yes, that’s exactly what I do! Why does she not under—“

“She does, Ross. She just wishes you would be safe. The very nature of these ventures is dangerous and you cannot stop your wife from worrying for you.”

Ross sighed and nodded, looking out across the sea. He knew that Demelza worried, he knew that she was anxious but he wished she would stop lashing out at him. He’d had enough of the yelling, the harsh words and looks and then the sudden flip to cheerful, jovial conversation before another storming off occurred. He didn’t blame her, he knew he was a hard man to live with at the best of times. He’d warned her of that when they’d married.

“We Poldarks are hasty, sharp tempered, strong in our likes and dislikes,” recited Elizabeth as she untied the ribbon from her hair, loosening her wet, tangled locks and tossing them behind her, “it is for us to be cautious who our temper falls on. Not always the right person.”

Ross turned his head to watch her as she clasped the ribbon loosely in her hand, turning to him too. His hair was thoroughly drenched, curls sticking to his glistening face. His skin shone with the wetness as her eyes travelled down the open collar of his shirt, his neck exposed as he leaned back on both hands. She swallowed and looked down at her gloves lying on the grass.

“I’m afraid I cannot advise you on how to provide for your family since I can scarcely do the same for my own. And you must believe that if I had means I would do all I could to aid you. All I urge is patience with Demelza. Care and attention and love may go a long way to mend cracks in something before it breaks. Marriage is an odd creature….it changes the way you feel and think about your spouse. What was once full of love and tenderness may now display a face so changed, another from the outside may barely recognise it. If you cannot shower her with the affection and tenderness she deserves, even the merest effort, a kind word, a sweet gesture, it may make all the difference.”

Her voice had died away into a whisper by the end and she stared down at the ground resolutely, grateful that the rain would mask any tears that slipped from her eyes. She gritted her teeth as she tried to hold it all in, tried to stop her eyes from burning. She didn’t want Ross to mistake her tears, she felt no girlish jealousy that Demelza was Ross’ wife and she was not. Rather, she wished Francis had displayed such tenderness to her at the start of her marriage rather than leaving her to fend for herself while he indulged his vices. It would not do to speak ill of the dead. Besides, there was no point now.

The change in her voice didn’t go over Ross’ head and she didn’t know how much he wished he had sat Francis down and took him to task for his behaviour so long ago. How he wished he had given him the same advice Elizabeth now gave him. With a heavy heart he had realised he should pay more attention to Demelza, stop being so preoccupied with constant negativity and allow some brightness into his life, which Demelza had always been. It seemed a domino effect, his neglect of her furthered her short temper with him and so round they went until it would get to a point of no return, which Ross was determined would never arrive.

“And as for the mine,” said Elizabeth, regaining control enough to look up at him again, “I wish there was something I could do. I hear that there is a new invention in London, similar to what Francis used in the garden but on a much larger scale. A metal detector of sorts….yet I know not how reliable it is and whether it could penetrate the many metres of rock in a mine of this sort. If you like, I could write to the men in London to ask.”

Ross smiled at her thoughtfulness, at how she was taking time out of her own concerns to entertain his, and in turn offer solutions for them. Her voice was hopeful and she looked at him inquisitively. He opened his mouth to reply but Elizabeth got there before him.

“Although it would be foolish to waste more money on another new-fangled invention that may or may not take effect,” she mused, furrowing her brow and looking out over the sea again.

“You took the words from my mouth,” remarked Ross, picking at the grass again, “I have a meeting with the shareholders soon and I don’t think they will be best pleased if I mention yet another contraption that will cost them more money. Getting them to agree to anything is like squeezing water from a stone,” he muttered, tossing the grass angrily out against the rain, “especially now that George seems to be the majority shareholder so nothing can happen without his approval. He vetoes every option I propose. Do you know how much I detest that he holds that power over me? Over my livelihood? He would seek to hold be back at every turn. Damn him. Damn George!” he blazed suddenly, “Damn him and damn Wheal Grace and damn Trencrom and damn _everything!_ ”

His eyes flashed a dangerous red, illuminated by the strobe from the lighthouse far out in the sea. His jaw tensed and he growled, the sound reverberating around her like thunder. He clenched his fists on his thighs, looking out at the sea as if he would jump below any minute and rip it to shreds. His sudden rage had been screaming to be released for months and he never had, for fear that he would terrify someone with it. Elizabeth reached out and unclenched one fist with her wet, cold hand, taking it in her own as he had done to her previously. He held it tight and she responded with the same strength, sitting silently with him until his grip loosened slightly. She knew that life had thrown so much at him, it was a wonder he was still sane and stable. She could tell that this raging and yelling was what he needed and he felt it too. He felt good, glad that he had freed himself from this, glad that he had found someone who wouldn’t judge him or fear him or accuse him of complaining childishly about his circumstances.

“Cages can open from the inside out too, if only one remembers how they closed to begin with.”

Ross exhaled slowly as he heard her speak and turned to her, surveying her through the rain. He squeezed her hand softly and she squeezed back, slowly slipping it out of his grasp before hoisting herself up with some difficulty. It had stopped raining but her dress seemed to weigh ten tonnes more than it had when she’d arrived and standing after so long seemed a little impossible. Placing her hat on her head, she tugged her gloves on and watched him stand up himself.

“When you catch a chill tomorrow, you must write to me. I’ll take the blame for it wholeheartedly.”

Elizabeth laughed then as they walked back to her horse, grasping the reins in preparation to hoist herself up. Ross smiled too at her laughter, it’d been too long since he’d heard it fall so freely from her lips.

“It is dark, though, Elizabeth, and you must ride through woodland to get back to Trenwith. Let me take you, you’re in no fit state to ride.”

“I am stronger than I look, I’ll have you know, Captain Poldark. I’ve learned to grow a thicker skin.”

With that, she swung up onto the horse and settled herself side saddle, fixing her dress across the immaculate white flank. Ross couldn’t help a small smile as he heard her call him Captain Poldark, something she’d teasingly addressed him as when he’d chased her over this very same cliff all those years ago. Many voices had called him that since, yet none had been sweeter than hers. She smiled at him and didn’t need to say goodbye. He would see her soon this week, he knew, for his usual meeting. Yet he wondered if he would ever see her like _this_ again. This Elizabeth. His Elizabeth. He held his flickering lamp up as he watched her ride off towards the forest, hat perched elegantly on her head, every inch the lady.

 


End file.
